


Tangible Qualia

by EvilMuffins



Category: Dangan Ronpa, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Finger Sucking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-01 00:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13283232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilMuffins/pseuds/EvilMuffins
Summary: For a boy who had sentenced, for all intents and purposes,  the first friend he had managed to make in this terrible school to her death in order to spare the rest of the group, Saihara had become very selfish indeed. Perhaps this was Ouma’s doing after all, he thought, continuing to thread his fingers through the other boy’s hair. Each time they were together, each exchange of saliva and body heat seemed to infect Saihara more and more, seeping into his veins.--Tending to wounds, inside and out.





	Tangible Qualia

**Author's Note:**

> A commissioned piece for paperpichi on Tumblr!  
> This was a ton of fun to work on, so I hope that comes through as you read!
> 
> Set during chapter 4, and assumes Ouma's ftes have been completed.

The sickening sound of knuckles on flesh continued to crawl around inside of Saihara’s gut, mixing heavily with what little he had been able to down of his breakfast.

Although Saihara had been made as uncomfortable as anyone else at the table by Ouma’s words, the sight of Kaito’s fist connecting with Ouma’s cheek had still made him cringe.

From across the table, he could already see Ouma’s right cheek beginning to puff up into an angry red. While being a light eater was one of the few things that he and Saihara seemed to share in common, the already petite boy seemed to be picking at his food more than usual, prodding at the eggs on his plate as if poking at a sleeping bear to check whether it were alive or not.

Saihara found himself rubbing at his own cheek in sympathy. It looked so painful, in fact, that he imagined Ouma was lucky that he hadn’t lost a tooth. While he could have preserved it in a glass of milk all he wanted, without access to any sort of medical care, there would have been no way to reattach it.

The thought occurred to Saihara then that he had never seen Ouma so quiet before, the realisation discomforting, much like pressing the button on a stuffed toy that was meant to speak, only to be met with eerie silence.

Ouma was the first to leave the dinning hall, only a hardly touched plate of food left behind as evidence that he had been there at all, the somber mood beginning to lift in his absence. Even days after the death of Toujou, Ouma still expected someone else to clean up after him.

It wasn’t going to be Saihara. Taking a deep breath, he managed to force down a few more forkfuls, waiting until at least Iruma had left, presumably to rush back to whatever it was she had been working on in the computer room, Kiibo trotting after.

“Hey, man. You okay?” Kaito asked as Saihara stood, picking up his own still half full plate. “That little shit didn’t upset you too much did he?”

Saihara paused midway to the kitchen, fork nearly toppling off his plate. “Er, no. I’m fine, just a little tired is all. I thought maybe I’d go back to my room and lie down for a bit.”

Kaito grinned, clapping him on the back. “Take it easy, Shuuichi. A detective like you is just what we need with someone like him around causing trouble."

“Sure…” Saihara cracked a smile.

As expected, by the time Saihara had ventured out into the hall, Ouma was long gone.

Saihara walked slowly, attempting to give Iruma and Kiibo enough time to get settled into the computer room, before heading up the stairs as well.

Pin pricks set in at the nap of his neck as he made his way toward Angie’s lab.

Even if he hadn’t been aware of what had occurred on the third floor just days earlier, Saihara was certain that he would still have found its halls unsettling, the atmosphere so starkly opposed to the greenery flourishing all about the floor level.

Testing the handle, Saihara found it unlocked. Angie had died too, after all, leaving no reason for her lab to be locked up.

“Saihara-chan!” Not that something as simple as a lock could have stopped Ouma from getting inside either way. “When you didn’t come running dramatically after me, I thought that you didn’t love me anymore!” he wailed, and Saihara could already see the tears welling in the corners of Ouma eyes as he sat perched on the edge of one of the work tables, legs dangling playfully above the floor in direct contrast with the expression on his still-swollen face. At least he seemed to have gone back to usual self after becoming so sullen in the dining hall.

“Ouma-kun…” Saihara began sternly, the sharp, chemical must of paints and clays settling in the back of his throat as he crossed the room. “You know I couldn’t do that.”

He couldn’t let the others know about this. There was no way.

“Nishishi~” Ouma giggled, feigned disappointment giving way to delight. “Look at you, Saihara-chan! I’ve made you into a liar too, just like me. Are you really sure you don’t want to join my organisation?”

Hastily, Ouma wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, wincing as his wrist brushed his cheek. Although he didn't bother to rise as Saihara stood before him, he had managed to somehow still his legs for the time being. Even so, Saihara could feel the pent-up energy still crackling all around him. Magnetic, Saihara could feel it drawing him in.

“I just came to tell you that I think it wasn’t right of Momota-kun to hit you so hard,” Saihara replied softly, reaching out hesitantly in order to guide Ouma’s arm away from his face. The area was now already beginning to mellow into a miserable shade of blue.

“’So hard’?” Ouma repeated, tilting his head to the side as if Saihara had suddenly began speaking in tongues.

“I wanted to see how you were doing,” Saihara said, still holding onto Ouma’s bony wrist, the touch grounding him as his head began to spin in the same way it always did whenever Ouma was near, “But some of the things you say… Ouma-kun, I want to believe that you’re lying, that there’s some grand plan that you’re just not telling us, but I just…”

As Saihara tried to pin down the words that flitted away like so many of Gonta’s bugs, Ouma took the opportunity to guide Saihara’s hand away from his wrist to press it instead against his cheek, where Saihara could feel the heat radiating off of the injury immediately.

“ _Ouch!”_ Ouma hissed, however Saihara’s instinctive attempt to jerk away was thwarted by Ouma’s surprisingly strong hold on his hand, mashing Saihara’s palm even harder against his face. “Just kidding! Your hand is so cold, Saihara-chan,” he cooed, nuzzling into Saihara’s palm, cat-like. “It feels really nice!”

It was always like this now whenever they were alone together, so much easier not to talk, for Saihara to simply let his head continue to swim to the point of drowning, caught up in the rip current that was Ouma Kokichi.

Even now, Saihara still wasn’t entirely sure how he had let things escalate to this point, although he supposed that it had started shortly after the horrific end to his short-lived friendship with Kaede. He had wanted to come out of shell, to make friends with the others, continuing to build trust until they could all escape together. Why he had chosen Ouma to reach out to of all people, Saihara still wasn’t certain. He had told himself that he had an obligation as a detective to unravel lies, but even after the continued promises of Saihara’s impending death, he had still sought the Supreme Leader's company out time and again.

There was a certain uneasy comfort- or easy discomfort, depending on the day- in spending time with a liar, Saihara had soon found. As the group's number began to dwindle around him, being able to count on the fact that every word coming out of Ouma’s childlike face was a lie provided an unexpected measure of stability, after witnessing the executions of friends who had lied, clinging onto to the guise of truth until the bitter end. Things had continued on that way, until Ouma had cut his hand while trying to play some stupid game. If hadn’t have been a suicidally foolish thing to do while trapped in a place with no access to medical care, other than a kid with clumsy hands doing his best to navigate a first aid kit, Saihara might have thought that Ouma had done it on purpose. He had certainly giggled enough while Saihara had held his hand, slick with far too much antibiotic gel, and fumbling with the roll of bandage.

In one surreal moment, Saihara had found himself kissing the wound after he had finished wrapping it. Maybe his mind had strayed to a time long ago when his mother had done the same for him, or maybe he had wanted to prove himself, to show Ouma that he was brave and stupid too, his mischievousness too infectious to stave off any longer. Saihara no longer knew the answer, if he ever had to begin with.

“ _I love you, Saihara-chan…”_ Ouma’s words ghosted over his lips, as Saihara continued to cradle his cheek, free hand bracing against the table as he leaned in.

 _Another lie._ That’s all it was; Saihara wasn’t about to kid himself. Yet still, the simple words never failed to settle into the hollows of his heart, sending it careening even deeper into something he was powerless to struggle out from, even if he had wanted to.

 _It’s only stress relief for him,_ Saihara reminded himself. Ouma’s mind worked so quickly that Saihara could practically feel it thrumming as their lips met. Anyone like that would need an outlet.

Ouma’s lips were soft, for all of the sharp words that had escaped them up until now. Tongue darting out, tracing Saihara’s bottom lip in a promise of gentle warmth that ended in a painful nip instead.

A sharp intake of breath escaped Saihara as Ouma pulled away, uncharacteristically soon, as it had always seemed to Saihara ages before he was usually set free to gasp for breath.

Eyes fluttering shut, Ouma’s head fell against Saihara’s shoulder, hand falling limply at his side.

“O-Ouma-kun?” Saihara sputtered. Despite Ouma’s penchant for pranks, it was clear that something was most certainly not right. “A-are you alright? Ouma-kun?” Saihara asked, voice steadily increasing in volume, suddenly heedless of anyone who might be passing by in the hall as he grabbed onto Ouma’s shoulders, situating the smaller boy’s limp form in his arms so as to get a better look at his face.

“Saihara…chan?” Ouma managed, eyes blinking, unfocused. “Bet you didn’t realise that you were such a good kisser, huh?” He laughed weakly. “You really gotta know when to let a guy up for air…”

Saihara bit back the panic rising in his throat. While it was true that Kaito had hit him pretty hard, had it really been enough to cause Ouma to blackout, especially nearly an hour after the fact?

“Stay here,” Saihara said, pulling away slowly, so as to make certain Ouma could sit upright on his own, “I’ll go get you a glass of water-“ However, he was stopped by a feeble tug at his sleeve.

“I’m fine, Saihara-chan! Never been better!” Ouma crowed through the slight quaver lingering in his voice as he hopped off the edge of the table in demonstration, tottering before finding his footing, only to stand unusually still in the center of the room.

“At least let me feel your head, then,” Saihara insisted, at a loss for what else to do. Whatever this was, a first aid kit wasn’t about to fix it.

Ouma didn’t resist, leaning into the touch, as Saihara swept back his bangs.

Saihara’s eyes grew wide as he traced just below the jagged gash with his thumb. How could he have forgotten? That was right- _the trial_. Ouma had fell through the floorboard, practically bashing his head in, mere moments before Shinguuji’s trial. There hadn’t been time to worry, and especially not so in front of the others. Ouma had seemed fine afterward, despite having nodded off at one point during the proceedings, and Saihara had put it out of mind, not having been able to steal time alone with him again until now.

“Ouma-kun,” Saihara ventured, “I think you have a concussion.” The punch from Kaito had only served to exacerbate it, he realised.

“Oh, really?” Ouma challenged petulantly, “If I did, then would I be able to do… _this_?” Rather than performing some stunt as Saihara feared that he would, Ouma remained standing unsteadily, leaving Saihara to wonder whether the action- or lack there of- was intended be to a joke or not.

“Well, whatever you want to call it, you’re not okay. If you won’t let me get you some water, at least take a rest,” Saihara pleaded, seating himself on the floor in hopes of tempting Ouma to do the same.

“Alrighty then!” Ouma said, flopping down as well. However, instead of simply leaning on Saihara, Ouma lay down on the paint-spattered floor, resting his head directly on Saihara’s thigh. His eyes blinked shut, and for one apprehensive moment, Saihara thought that he had passed out again.

“You know,” Ouma pipped up suddenly, “I only stopped making out with you because I didn’t think that you’d want to get all gross in front of our late friends.”

Saihara’s eyes followed his vague gesture around the room, only to realise with a sick jolt that the wax effigies still hung all around them, with the exception of one. He had been so wrapped up in Ouma, that he had hardly even registered them.

“Why…” Saihara began, eyes narrowing toward one figure in particular. “Why is Amami-kun’s statue lying on the floor?”

“Nishishi~” Ouma giggled, the few moments of rest seeming to do more good than they should have. “That’s for me to know, and you not to find out!”

Saihara rolled his eyes, although the action was lost on Ouma, his own still closed serenely as Saihara began to stroke his hair in spite of himself. It was hard to avoid, terribly soft as it was, despite the odd-smelling and completely adverse to lathering shampoo they had been allotted in their dorm showers.

It occurred to Saihara then that, if this had been even just two week earlier, he wouldn’t have known what to do with himself, another boy’s head resting in his lap and all.

“Hey, Saihara-chan?” Ouma asked innocently, large eyes snapping open, probing up at him. “Why don’t you tell the others about us?”

“I don’t exactly see you lining up to tell them either,” Saihara pointed out. Although Ouma had declared his love for Saihara a time or two in front of the others before, no one had taken him seriously, just the same as Saihara hadn’t. After all, he had called Amami his ‘beloved’ once as well. Words were nothing more than shiny toys to Ouma.

Either way, the others could never know about this. The guilt by association would have been unbearable, Saihara knew. Maki and Kaito would never speak to him again, if they didn’t murder Ouma on the spot first.

Saihara had never had friends like Maki and Kaito before becoming locked up in the school, but at the same time, he had never had someone like Ouma either. He had overheard the other boys at his school in the past, bragging about having spent the night with their girlfriends- or the occasional boyfriend- but that was something that happened to other people, or in the fictional world of TV shows, not to Saihara Shuuichi. Now that he had _this_ , someone to forget about fear and murder with whenever they were alone together, he wasn’t about to give it up.

For a boy who had sentenced, for all intents and purposes, the first friend he had managed to make in this terrible school to her death in order to spare the rest of the group, Saihara had become very selfish indeed. Perhaps this was Ouma’s doing, after all, he thought, continuing to thread his fingers through the other boy’s hair. Each time they were together, each exchange of saliva and body heat seemed to infect Saihara more and more, seeping into his veins.

Saihara wasn’t certain how long they stayed like that, however it was enough for his legs to have turned to pins and needles, as all the while the plausible deniability as to why the both of them had disappeared at once had continued to dwindle.

As Ouma was finally about to dart out of the room, Saihara urged to him to speak with him again if his condition became any worse, yet knowing all the while that he wouldn’t.

The days passed, as did more of their friends. Iruma and Gonta gone, along with whatever it was that Saihara had developed between himself and Ouma.

_“You’re all alone, Ouma-kun, and you always will be.”_

The words echoed in Saihara’s head as he stared up at the dorm room ceiling hanging above him. He knew that he should be worrying about Kaito and his condition instead, but the guilt over what he had said after the trial continued to haunt him.

As much he wanted to tell himself that his cold words had been a performance for the others, he knew that they weren’t.

Ouma had sacrificed two of their friends, said such horrible things, and yet…

Pulling the blankets up over his head, Saihara squinted his eyes shut until rainbow lights began to form behind his lids, trying to imagine himself in Ouma’s place. Would he have allowed himself to be killed by Iruma’s scheme, if it had meant avoiding a mess like they had just witnessed?

It was hard to know for certain, but Saihara thought that he might have.

Ouma was not Saihara.

They weren’t the same after all, despite Saihara’s lies and Ouma's truths intertwining as the killing game spiraled onward, and that was why Saihara found himself sliding out of bed, and unlocking his door. That was why he couldn’t just leave Ouma alone.

Climbing the stairs to upper levels of the dorms, however, Saihara’s resolve began to drain all around him, like water from a bathtub, leaving him cold and exposed.

He should check on Kaito instead, see how he was holding up… so why wouldn’t his feet move from their place in front of Ouma’s door?

“ _Coming!”_ Came a voice from inside, startling Saihara out of his indecision. How had Ouma even known that anyone was there?

“Oh…” The door cracked open just wide enough for a single violet eye to peep through, narrowing at the sight of Saihara waiting there. “It’s _you_. You must have gotten my room mixed up with someone else’s, seeing as I’m _forever alone_ and all. Your beloved Momota-chan is a few doors down.”

“Ouma-kun, wait!” Saihara demanded, jamming his foot in between the door and the frame just as it began to close, surprising even himself.

“Alright,” Ouma said, surprising Saihara further as he opened the door, only enough to slip out onto the balcony, not allowing Saihara so much as a peep inside.

Ouma’s face relaxed into his typical playful smirk. “Is this some sort of booty-call, Saihara-chan? Are you some sort of sadist or something, getting all worked up just from saying mean things to me?”

“A-a what?” Saihara sputtered, his briefly resurrected resolve draining away once more as he backed up toward the rail of the balcony overlooking the first level of rooms. Hearing such things come out of Ouma’s cherubic face still somehow always managed to make Saihara squirm in ways that he didn't care to admit.

“You came to see me because if I do put a stop to this game,” Ouma taunted, taking a step forward, backing Saihara up until the cold rail pressed into the small of his back, “You might never see me again, and then you’ll miss your one chance to tell anyone who’s left out there that you _fucked_ the leader of the world’s greatest evil organisation!”

“That’s not-“ The all-too familiar feeling was quickly coming over him again, as if his head was suddenly filled with cotton, a taxidermied deer nailed up on the wall for cruelly innocent eyes to pick apart.

Before he could even register what was happening, Ouma had taken him by the hand, tugging him along down the stairs, until they reached Saihara’s door.

“After you,” Ouma offered generously.

Still at a loss for words, Saihara found himself mechanically opening up the door. Whatever was happening, he most decidedly preferred for it _not_ to happen right while someone was coming out of their room to see.

“Aww, that is it?” Ouma lamented upon being let in.

“Isn’t your room set up just the same as mine?” Unlike their labs, Saihara had been under the impression that their rooms hadn’t been personalised.

“Well, maybe it’s better this way,” Ouma decided, sauntering over to Saihara’s closet in order to peek inside. “It’d be kind of hard to do it with Amami-chan’s statue gawking at us…”

“ _That’s_ where that went?” Saihara asked, suddenly all the more curious about Ouma's own room.

“Nishishi~ Who knows?” Ouma said, flopping down on the edge of the bed.

Against his better judgement, Saihara followed, half expecting Ouma to leap up and run off at any moment. Despite all the time they had spent together, they had done nothing more heated than kissing until now. He couldn’t be serious about doing this now of all times. He must still think that Saihara wanted nothing to do with him, and this was no more than some twisted form of retaliation.

“Ouma-kun, listen. I’m sorry for what I said earlier. If you,” he swallowed, choosing to pick his words carefully before they made their escape from him once again. “If you can just share with me your plan, so that I can try and understand-“

He was cut off, however, as Ouma latched onto his wrists, tugging him down to land directly on top of him.

Saihara could have put a stop to it right then and there, pushed himself back up and off of Ouma, forcing him to leave.

Instead, he found himself staring into Ouma’s wide purple eyes, engrossed by an emotion that he never seen in them before now.

_Fear..?_

The recognition caused Saihara’s heart to jump strangely. Was that why Ouma had wanted this, even after the terrible things that Saihara had said, even after all that Ouma done? Could he truly have been afraid of losing Saihara? The thought was almost laughable. If it weren’t for his skills as a detective, Saihara would have been utterly expendable to everyone there.

And just like that, they were the same once again, because Saihara was frightened as well.

The dawning fact that he had fallen in love with Ouma Kokichi of all people- right in the middle of a killing game- terrified him in way that the threat of losing his own life never had.

Splayed out over the white sheets, the deep aubergine of Ouma’s hair appeared darker than ever, matching the bruise still stubbornly visible on his cheek, the gash on his forehead just peeking out from beneath his unruly bangs.

“Does it still hurt?” Saihara muttered, despite knowing that he wouldn’t get a straight answer, as an idea began to form in his head. If words were merely playthings to Ouma, then he would have to come up with another way to communicate how he felt.

Ouma grinned up at him, although his eyes were still tainted dark, with something faraway. “I actually passed out in the shower this morning and nearly drowned! …That’s a lie, though. I’m really all better now.”

“But that’s a lie too, isn’t it?” Saihara challenged, smoothing Ouma’s hair away from his forehead in order to lay a tentative kiss upon the cut he now knew to be there. It had healed terribly, and Saihara could taste the metallic tang on his lips. At least it didn’t seem to be infected; it was bad enough that the impact of the floorboard had given him a concussion. It must have been incredibly painful, he thought. Saihara couldn’t even imagine himself being able to make it through an entire trial like that.

Ouma wrinkled up his nose. “More kissing, Saihara-chan? That’s so boring!”

Saihara ignored him, gaining confidence from the fact that Ouma still hadn’t yet run away, as he continued his attention toward Ouma’s face, kissing lightly at the bruise. The area was hot, and Saihara wasn’t quite certain that was only from the injury. If it hurt, it served Ouma right for not telling him.

“Let me know if you feel like you’re going to pass out again…or if…if you need me to stop for any reason,” Saihara managed, despite the cotton-like feeling from his head having now traveled downward to his mouth, sapping it dry as he tried to speak through his gathering nerves.

Ouma snorted softly. “You really think this is my first time, Saihara-chan?”

So Ouma hadn’t done anything like this before, Saihara decided. At least he couldn’t be too much of a disappointment to Ouma in that case, seeing as Saihara hadn’t done it with anyone yet either, despite whatever it was that Iruma invention had said about him.

 _Where else, where else?_ he wondered to himself, attempting to think back through the distraction of the cartwheels in his chest, set off by the sight of Ouma lying flushed on his bed, lithe form straddled between his thighs.

“Harukawa-san… she tried to choke you,” he realised, brushing his fingertips over Ouma’s throat.

“Yeah? So?” Ouma turned his head to the side, finally breaking eye contact, as he spoke into the sheets. “Are you into that or something, Saihara-chan? So really are some sort of perv...”

Despite his attempt to play it off, Saihara could feel the pulse in Ouma’s neck quicken under his touch.

Saihara shook his head, attempting to clear it of the thoughts that had just been placed there. Maybe Ouma _was_ right about him. “I just want to see what she did to you…”

Fingertips fumbling, Saihara managed to tug off Ouma’s scarf, before setting to work on his top buttons. Unlike Saihara, he hadn’t changed for bed yet, and Saihara realised that he must have been staying up, deep in the midst of working on whatever it was that he refused to confide in Saihara about. It would certainly explain the dark circles looming underneath his eyes.

Maybe it was selfish of him, but the longer he and Ouma could spend together, maybe the longer it would be before everything came crashing down around them. If Ouma could be selfish, then so could he.

It was no wonder that Saihara had never seen Ouma without his scarf until then. Although beginning to fade a sickly yellow, hidden underneath were a series of finger-shaped bruises ringing his neck from where Maki’s grip had had been tight enough to lift him off of the ground.

Although Ouma began to open his mouth in order to spout some other show of false confidence, only a hitched breath made its escape as Saihara pressed a kiss, warm and open-mouthed, on the center of his throat.

For once, there were no lies, no tricks, or pranks, or schemes, or confusion. It was almost intoxicating, having the boy who had jerked the entire group around like a handful dolls since the beginning, now rendered so docile under his touch for a precious few moments. Feeling a thrill run through him, settling finally in a place he’d rather not think about at the moment, Saihara moved on to the next finger mark in the pattern, then the next, peppering kisses on each one in turn, vaguely aware of the sporadic squirming that had started up beneath him, decidedly different from that of Ouma’s usual pent-up energy.

“Y-you’re terrible at this…” Ouma muttered into the sheets, quaver in his voice speaking to the opposite, as did the unsteady hand now wandering its way up inside of Saihara’s t-shirt.

“You’re probably right,” Saihara laughed softly into the crook of Ouma’s neck, feeling the muscles there tense as he did so. At least, he was fairly sure that it had been a lie. Either way, there was no way that he was anywhere approaching skilled at this, although he wasn’t about to let that stop him at this point.

Groping on the sheet until finding purchase on Ouma’s free hand, Saihara threaded their fingers together for a moment, before pulling himself away from Ouma’s neck, instead bringing his knuckles to meet his lips.

Although Saihara thought that he probably should have, Ouma no longer wore a bandage on his finger, the edges of his cut having knit together into an angry red indentation. How many scars would he have by the time this game was through, Saihara wondered, kissing at the tip of his slender finger. It tasted of ink and sweat, and a tinge of fresh blood that might have been a papercut, and Saihara thought vaguely that he should felt disgusted as he parted his lips, allowing Ouma to take the lead, pressing it inside, slowly, each knuckle a depth marker for how deeply he had fallen, caught up in the lies, the dark eyes, and soft skin, the warm body breathing heavily beneath him.

“ _Nn!”_ Saihara let out a sharp intake of breath, nearly biting into Ouma’s finger as something that took him a second to register as Ouma’s knee began to rub at front of his shorts. “O-Ouma-kun!”

As Saihara opened his mouth, Ouma took the opportunity to remove his finger, painting the saliva across Saihara’s cheek in a sloppy caress. “If you wanted to do it with a corpse, there were plenty to go around before.” He grinned shakily. “It’s not a fair game if I’m having all the fun.”

“When…” Saihara breathed, licking at his already slick lips, suddenly and painfully aware of the tightness in his shorts. “When have you ever made things fair?”

“I’ve never made things easy, either, have I?” Ouma teased, leaning up on his elbows, in order to messily cram their lips together, Saihara taking the opportunity to paw at more of Ouma’s buttons. Did his outfit have to be so damn complicated? Not that it didn’t suit him.

“What now?” Ouma whined as they broke apart.

“Being unfair…” Saihara muttered, drawing back Ouma’s shirt. As he had half way expected, the ghostly lines of faded scars steaked here and there, whether the results of past failed stunts, or something more sinister, he didn’t ask. In that moment, tracing and kissing each mark, Saihara chose to believe that they could still escape together, that there would be time then for each and every one of Ouma’s secrets to be undone. They could take their time, all the time in the world, a world currently comprised solely of Saihara’s dorm room, solely of Ouma Kokichi. A world devoid of anything more than soft sighs and warm hands and a pounding heart.

By the time Saihara had reached the sharp curve of Ouma’s hipbone, the straining in his pants was impossible to overlook. Not missing where Saihara’s eyes had landed, Ouma smirked, placing an unsteady hand overtop Saihara’s, guiding it downward.

“It’s okay, Saihara-chan,” Ouma’s voice dipped low, soft and conspiratorial, as if telling a secret that must be kept in the strictest confidence, despite the words having already been spoken aloud before. “Because I love you, you know?”

Once again, the words set Saihara’s heart into making a deft attempt at escaping the confines of his ribcage.

Deciding that the very first mystery he intended to solve upon escaping the school, was definitely going to be that of just why belts had been made to be as frustrating as humanly possible to undo with shaking fingers, Saihara managed to gain access to Ouma’s zipper, tugging it down gingerly. Ouma offered no help, save for making the task more difficult by trailing his hand up and down Saihara’s arm, observing quietly through heavily eyes.

“Still bored?” Saihara challenged in a feeble attempt at sounding more confident than he felt, running his hand over the front of Ouma’s gaudy boxers.

“Y-yeah…” Ouma choked out, gripping Saihara’s arm hard enough to leave bruises of his own. “So hurry it up already…”

Taking in a deep breath, Saihara hooked his fingers into the waistband, tugging it down just enough before pulling him free.

“Saihara-chan!” Ouma whined, clamping his free hand into Saihara’s hair as gave an experimental lick at the tip.

Taking that as a confirmation that he was more or less going about things the right way, Saihara took in as much of the length as he could, and with the way Ouma clawed at his scalp, he began to think that it might be unlikely that he would make it out of this without any injuries of his own to show for it.

Trying his best to ignore his own mounting need- made all the more difficult by the strangled gasps and half-formed moans falling from Ouma's mouth- Saihara continued to lavish his attention on Ouma, despite the fact that he was fairly certain that both the back of his head and forearm must be bleeding by now. If Ouma noticed what he was doing, he didn’t seem much to care, the heel of his foot digging into the already rumpled sheets, his entire body visibly desperate for something to ground it.

“Saiha- _Shuuichi_ -!” he groaned, just as something warm filled Saihara’s mouth, forcing him to pull back, coughing as he spat into his hand.

After grabbing a handful of tissues from the nightstand and cleaning up as best as he could, he turned back to see Ouma had curled up into a ball, eyes shut and panting softly. Somehow, he looked off worse off than when they had started, causing a wave of guilt to wash over Saihara.

“I’ll just go take care of…stuff…in the bathroom, so…”

However Ouma had rolled over, reaching out to grab at the hem of Saihara’s tee, and as he paused on the edge of the bed, he could feel Ouma’s chest pressing into his back, arms wrapping around his front and hands traveling downward.

“That was okay and all, but what kind of leader would I be if I didn’t show you how it's done?” he asked, forehead nuzzling the back of Saihara’s neck.

“I’m still not part of your organisation, Ouma-kun…” Saihara let out a weary sigh he hadn’t realised he’d been holding as he attempted to smooth his sweat-dampened hair back into place, wincing at the fresh scratches hidden there.

“That was the initiation,” Ouma purred, as if it should have been obvious.

“Did I pass?” Saihara asked, the muzzy feeling in his head making it easier to play along for the time being.

“You failed.” Although, somehow, the nimble fingers roaming his body didn’t serve to make Saihara feel like quite as much of a failure as usual. “This is your punishment, of course.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> https://evil-muffins.tumblr.com/  
> https://twitter.com/mikan_komaeda
> 
> I'm a delight, I promise.


End file.
